Married
by Fishpuppy56
Summary: John and Sherlock are married before Sherlock ever meets the Yard, and not everyone believes that anyone would marry Sherlock Holmes. What they don't know is that John was once again sent to Afghanistan, and Sherlock started to take on their cases to take his mind off of his husband. John is seriously injured while on tour, and Sherlock needs to help him readapt to civilian life
1. Chapter 1

**AN- Hi everyone, this is my first story, hope you like. I'm looking for a beta, so please PM me if you are interested. Please let me know if you like the story so far or if you have any suggestions. I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes, this account is so I can work against my learning disability. Have a nice day everyone!**

 **Disclaimer- I do not own BBC's Sherlock, even if I wish I did. Only the ideas are mine!**

* * *

Chapter 1

"Hey, Sherlock, it's OK," John says as he wrapped me in his arms. "I'll be back before you know it. Sh-sh, come-on, it's okay, love." I can't respond right away, I throat has closed up with the tears streaming down my face and onto Johns shirt.

"But why did they have to call _you_ back up. You were discharged a year ago, for God's sake!" I bury my head in the crook of my husband's neck, trying to lock John's sent in my mind palace before he has to go and join the group on the plain.

"I've told you this, Sherlock, and I know you remember, with that incredible mind of yours. And I also know that you wouldn't delete something this important. They need more soldiers, especially ones who know what they are doing out in the field. It will save the army a lot of time by not having to train as many people, let alone for a second time." He gently reminds me, carding his fingers through my hair.

I can't help but think about my John as he is right now. So much smarter than he was when I first met him, after he had been discharged. Currently fitted in a dress uniform, my husband was a striking man who is up for anything is sent his way. My Captain John H Watson-Holmes.

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. I will be absolutely fine, I will come back to you and Mrs. Hudson. I will be fine." He tries to reassure me.

"But I don't know if I will be." I whisper. Sherlock Watson-Holmes, not knowing. It seems like a ridiculous idea, but after falling for this man, and him being pulled away from me by the idiotic army, I don't know if I'll be able to function without my John.

* * *

One year later

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _How have things been in London? How have your cases gone? I can't believe that it has been over a year since I last saw you, and how much you have changed. Working for, sorry, with, the Yard and finding something that you really enjoy doing. Afghanistan is the same, but we have had a lot more casualties coming in, so many that I get called up sometimes to act as another surgeon, even if I'm now a combat soldier. Speaking of which, they are moving my unit up to the front lines next week, so writing might be even harder than it is known. I don't want you to worry, even if I know that you will anyway._

 _Tell me about your cases. Any interesting serial murderers since the last time you wrote? If so, please be careful, love, I don't need a call, or more likely kidnapping, from your brother while I'm stationed at the front. Don't let Anderson and Donavan bother you too much, when I get home on leave, I'll have to stop by the Yard and set them all straight. Just because they haven't met me doesn't mean that we are not a happily married couple, even if you play your violin when you need to sleep!_

 _I'm sorry love, but I have to go, there are more casualties coming in, and I'll be needed. Be nice to your brother, say hi to Mrs. Hudson, and don't forget that I love you. Leave will be coming soon, but first I have to go to the front lines. Don't worry. I will be as fine as possible without you here._

 _I love you, don't be an idiot,_

 _John_

"Mrs. Hudson!" I yelled, after reading the letter for the fourth time. As she ambled up the narrow stairway to the flat, I began to pace. The letter from John had arrived two weeks ago, without another in sight. As my mind ran through all of the possibilities of what could have happened to my husband, Mrs. Hudson finally appeared in the doorway.

"What is it, Sherlock? No word from him yet?" she asked

"No! Nothing!" I threw my hands into the air. "Every week he sends a letter, but none has come. Yes, I realize he is on the front lines," I say before she could ask, "he was quite clear in his letter that communication may take longer, but _absolutely nothing_ has come through!" I launched myself into the sofa.

"Sherlock, dear, do you think it might be time to ask your brother? He is always willing to help out for the doctor. Or maybe take on a case, what do you think about all of those suicides? It's quite horrible. Oh, maybe see if a case has come through from the website!" Mrs. Hudson probed me.

"Fine, I'll send Mycroft a text! There has to be something going on."

"I'll leave you to it, dear, it's time for my soothers anyway.

I dug through my desk for my mobile, can never find the damn thing. Although I loath asking my brother for help, I see no choice in this case. My John has never been late with a letter before, and I don't see why he would start now, the idiot would never make me worry. Ha-ha! Stupid little bugger was behind the jar of eyeballs in the cabinet!

 **(AN** **underline Mycroft,** ** _italicized Sherlock)_**

 _Brother, do you have any information you would like to share with me about my husband? I find it strange that there he has not contacted me this week. SH_

I was waiting for your text, little brother. Your Captain's unit was moved to the front lines two weeks ago. While on a mission, his unit was ambushed. He has been in a MASH* unit for a week and a half now. I was going to tell you, but I have been… preoccupied. MH

 _You are an idiot for not telling me. SH_

No, just busy. You do realize that I hold a minor position in the British government. MH

 _You are the British government. For not telling me about John's condition, I ask for a full file on what happened, him to be moved to Barts as soon as possible, and a favor. SH_

Done. MH

Seeing no need to respond, I might as well clean up the flat as I wait for Johns file. He would be coming home soon, and a clean flat is the least I can do for my doctor.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson yelled. "There is a lady at the door for you! Come down dressed, young man, and be polite, or I will write John!"

"Getting dressed is boring, Mrs. Hudson, there is no point in doing so right now." I replied, dashing down the stairs. I knew that it would be Morgan, Mycroft's assistant, with Johns file, by the sounds of a car pulling up to the drive of the flat building. No one in London had brand new tires on their car except Mycroft at this time of year.

Reaching the door, I said, "Hello, Megan, I believe that is for me. Is that a new necklace? I know my brother's guard is sweet on you, but I wouldn't keep in so fast, you're already sleeping with him, for God's sake. And while on the job. Tisk, tisk."

"It's Anthea today, Mr. Holmes. Here is everything on your husband's injuries." She turned around and went to the car that was pulled to the curb. "Have a nice evening."

"Sherlock, no need to be so rude! What did she mean, is John hurt?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"Yes, according to my brother. This will tell us just how bad it is."

I ripped open the manila envelope and pulled out the chart.

 _Captain John H Watson-Holmes. Critical condition. Three broken ribs… Concussion… Skull fracture… two bullet wounds, one to the left shoulder, one to the right thy… Abrasions… punctured lung…_ My John… Everything is too much. Too much information- the sounds of the street, the people chatting, the noise of the city, the smell of the sewar. It's too much. Things start to go blurry.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay? Dear, you don't look so good." Funny, Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded further and further away from me. The black filled the rest of my vision.

* * *

 **AN- Hope you like it so far, even if I left you with a cliffhanger! I'll try to update at least once a week, but please understand that I am a very busy high school student! Leave a review and tell me what you think, constructive criticism is always welcome.**

 *** A MASH unit was a Mobil Army Surgical Hospital, they were used in the Korean war. I don't know if they still use them today, but I wanted John to still be somewhat close to the front lines for right now.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **AN- Hi everyone, I'm back. Sorry for the delayed update, I am a very busy high school student, and am currently playing a sport seven days a week. Thank you to those who followed, favorated, and reviewed. I am looking for a beta for this story, if you are interested, please PM me. Let me know what you think!**

 _Beep… Beep… Beep…_ I can hear the steady cadence of the noise, but I can't tell what the sound is. My mind is foggy, all the doors to my mind palace seem to be locked up tight. As the fog starts to clear, the doors become less and less sticky. I yank on the door closest to me, and it flings open with a bang. As I enter the room, the objects and memories become more clear. _John._ _He was injured on tour._

 _Three broken ribs… … Skull fracture… two bullet wounds, one to the left shoulder, one to the right thy… Abrasions… punctured lung…_

 _I have to get up. I have to see my John._ I fight the glue holding my eyelids together, finally prying them open, but having to close them immediately because of the brightness of the stark white room. Slowly, I blink open my eyes again. The sight that I see is one of a hospital room. _Heart monitor, IV (saline, 600 cc's per hour), cabinets along one wall, full of drugs (all locked, any could be opened with a few seconds). There are windows, shades drawn, Mycroft's doing. Deductions lead to the conclusion that I fainted after reading John's information._

No one is in the room, idiots. Don't they know that someone who faints could have a head wound? The first 24 hours are critical, and judging by the sun through the curtains, I can't have been out for more than two hours.

I quickly sit up, ignoring the pounding in my head, and plant my feet on the floor. Someone would be coming in soon to check in on me, unless the hospital staff is completely incompitant. There is no way I will let people see me as anything other than top notch.

The sound of the door opening pulled me from my thoughts. Mycoft steps into the room, umbrella in one hand, garment bag in another.

"Well," he says, "it's good to see you awake, dear brother. If you had been out any longer, people might begin to say that I worry about you, for staying so long."

I scoff. "No one could ever accuse you about fretting over me, Mycroft. They know that there is no way into the Iceman's heart."

"Such words for someone who brings your clothing and news about your husband." He retorts.

"John?! Where is he? Has he been moved? Is he stable? When can I see him?" my questions burst forth before I can ebb their flow.

"First, I think, a shower and new clothing. You cannot go parading around a hospital with your backside hanging out, and somehow, I don't think you would take very kindly to an orderly pushing you in a wheel chair."

My thoughts run with my brother's words. True, it had been days since my last shower, I was fretting over John's lack of correspondence to worry about the Transport. His words also revealed that my husband was in the very same building as me, for I would not run about Barts hospital at all, unless John were here, or there was a case, but I would stay in the morgue and labs for that. My John is home, more or less safe, but not entirely sound.

I walk up to Mycroft as dignified as I can manage in a hospital gown (why would they put me in one of these atrocious things if I was only out for a few hours?), take the garment bag, and go through the loo door, across the room.

I reamerge after changing into the suit, pulling on the shoes as I exit, in my rush to get to my husband.

"Isn't that better?" Mycroft asks, a small, overly sweet, closemouthed smile on his face. "To answer some of your questions, the dear Dr. Watson is here at St. Barts, stable as he can be, and you can see him now, so long as you follow the hospital rules, although some have been bent because of the Doctor's situation."

"What are the rules, Mycroft?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"No smoking, no insulting the hospital staff for doing nothing wrong, you cannot displace any of the machines he is hooked up to, you must eat, and follow the doctors plan for Dr. Watson's recovery."

"Done."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Mycroft leads me through the winding corridors of the hospital, which would not be necessary if he had told me what room, not saying a word. Stopping at the fourth floor, the ICUR (Intensive Care Unit Recovery*), room number 122, Mycroft opened the door with a flourish. I sped through the door only to see my doctor connected to various machines, looking much worse than when we had last spoken through Skype.

John was not wearing a shirt, and his lower half was covered with a light blanket. His shoulder was heavily wrapped in neat gauze, various ablations covered with plasters of different sized. John's leg had a large bandage covering where a bullet had grazed him, ribs wrapped like a present to keep them in place. My poor John looked like he had been through the grinder.

I look over at Mycroft, asking, "When will he be awake?" in a quiet voice.

"I will let you talk with the doctors. It will be a long recovery."

 **AN- Hope you like the chapter, even if John is not awake yet. He will be soon, I promise. Please let me know what you think about the story, I am always looking for ways to improve my writing. Like I said in the first chapter, this account is to help me get over my learning disability by facing it head on. Also, I am a very busy high school student, who is currently playing a sport seven days a week. I might not always update regularly.**

 *** I'm not sure if the ICUR is really a thing, so do not take my word for it!**

 **I am looking for a beta, if you are interested, PM me, please!**

 **Review! It's the little button right below!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **AN- Hi again, I tried to post again as soon as I could, but I'm writing this right before I post it, unfortunately, I don't have a chapter that I can just throw out to you guys. Thanks for those who reviewed, favorated, or followed. I'm looking for a beta, if you're interested, please PM me!**

 **Disclaimer- I do not own BBC's Sherlock, I wish I did, and I only own my own thoughts!**

John POV

 _The light faded in and out, from being blinding white to the darkest of night in the Afganistan sky. Sometimes, the color was somewhere in the middle, different shapes of gray, and it sometimes reminded me of my husbands eyes. But what was his name? Everything is foggy in my head, and I can't seem to clear it. I know that my spouse is a bloke, no girl would ever be able to keep up with the adventure I crave, no offense to women. But the name keeps slipping through my fingers, and I just can't seem to grasp it._

 _The light starts to become bright again, completely blinding me, even if there is nothing to see. As the light continues to brighten, other sensations become noticeable. Pain is the first, shooting white hot daggers through my head, shoulder, leg, and ribs with every breath I pull though my lungs._

 _Next is the feeling of the hand gripping mine like a vice, not willing to let go at any cost. I try to wiggle my fingers, succeeding in moving them a miniscule amount. Then I try to squeeze the long, slim fingers grasping mine, for it makes the pain more bearable._

 _Beep… Beep… Beep… is the next thing that I notice, the annoying noise of the heart monaters in the field hospital. But why would I be hearing a heart monitor? Is someone I know hurt? What about my husband, whose name I still cannot discover._

 _As the beeping gets louder, I hear someone trying to talk to me, but it sounds like they are miles and miles away, like hearing Sherlock (that's the name!) over the phone before my unit was moved to the front lines. Is it possible that I got hurt on duty?_

"Hey John, John, I can feel you moving your fingers, can you hear me? Can you hear me, John? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Wake up, you idiot, you have scared me half to death with worry!" I recognize the voice, it's Sherlock! But he sounds so far away. Is it really his hand that I am holding onto? I squeeze it, in case that it really is his hand. I want my Sherlock to know that I'm okay.

I have to find out. What if he is hurt, and that's why I'm hearing a heart monitor? I try to pry open my eyes, but they feel like they are glued together, as dry as the desert. It takes a few attempts, but I manage to wedge them open. As soon as I manage that, I have to immediately close them again, because of how bright it is. It is even brighter than the light from before.

As I slowly blink open my eyes, they immediately fall on the face leaning over mine, pale skin, gray-blue eyes, and a mop of black curls.

"Sher-" I try and get the sound out of my parched throght, but it feels too much like sandpaper to actually accomplish the whole word. "Wa-"

"Do you need some water, John? The nurse left some right here for you, let me get it. Don't try to move too much. Here you go." My husband leaned out over me again and put a straw to my lips as I drank like a dying man.

"Sherlock," I croak out, "what happened? Why am I here?" every few words was interrupted by my lungs trying to escape through my traicea, but I managed the small sentence.

"Hey, just lean back and relax. Your unit was ambushed in Afganistan, you were shot, John. God," he said, "I thought that I had lost you when you didn't write. You have been asleep for three weeks."

"Three-" I cough, "Three weeks?" he nods

"I need to go let the nurse know that you are awake, okay? But first, you have to let go of my hand. I promise that I will be right back. Don't try and move around too much." I hadn't realized that I was still holding his hand in a harsh grip, but I let go, even if I never wanted to let him out of my sight again.

Sherlock left, and was back again quickly with a nurse and a doctor in tow. The doctor's name tag said _Dr. A. Jeffery,_ and the nurses said _Mary M._

"Well," the doctor said, "It's great to see you awake Dr. Watson."

"Please call me John, I'm not much of a doctor at the moment." I manage to get the words of the introduction out of my throat.

"Pleasure to meet you, John, and you too, Mr. Watson-Holms," he said with a nod of his head to Sherlock. "Are you experiencing any discomfort? We had to wean you off some of the pain killers to help you wake up, but now we should be able to up the dose a bit."

I nodded, "My shoulder and leg, especially, they have given me a little trouble in the past. Old school rugby injuries." I grinned at the memory, but my smile quickly faded as I realized that I might not ever be able to play the sport again. "Just how bad off am I, Doc?"

"Well," he said, " we still need to give you a more thorough exam not that you are awake, but it looks like you will regain most of your mobility, but not quite all of it. I am confident, though, that you will still be able to continue as a doctor." The thought of still being able to help people gave me some comfort, but the road to recovery will be a long one.

 **AN- How about that? Two updates so close to one another. I'm glad I am able to get this out, the next few weeks are going to be crazy school wise for me, with quite a few tests (along with the stupid standardized testing) and practicle exams. A fun week all around for me. Good luck to those of you who are in the same boat as me! Please tell me how you liked the story, constructive criticism is always welcome! I am looking for a beta for this story, please PM me if you are interested, I could certainly use a little help here!**

 **Please Review!** **J**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **AN- Sorry about the late update, school has been absolutely crazy. I have had a softball game every day this week, plus two on Saterday, and a horseback show this coming Sunday (wish me luck!). The only reason I have time to write this is because my game got rained out! I am still looking for a beta, if you are interested, please PM me.**

 **Warning- nothing M rates, but be aware that this is a T rated story**

 **Also, a reviewer, sneakysnakes, pointed out a few spelling errors that I have now corrected. Thanks to sneakysnakes! Sorry for those of you who read those errors, as I have said before, I am working on it!**

 **Disclaimer** **\- I do not own BBC's Sherlock, even though I wish I did.**

"Sherlock, I am fine, for God's sake! There is no need for you to help me do every d%$n thing." I angrily tell my husband **(AN- I don't swear).** I love my Sherlock, but at this point, he is getting on my nerves. It has been several days since I woke up, and I get to (FINALLY) go back to Baker Street, but that may or may not have to do with someone who holds a minor position in the British government.

I am still not doing as well as I would like, but from a doctors standpoint, I'm doing fairly well for having been shot. My leg is in a heavy plaster cast, my ribs are wrapped up tight, and my arm is in a sling. Everything hurts, but I get to go home. Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, I rub my forehead with my good and say, "I'm sorry, love, I just want to be able to do some things on my own."

My husband sits next to me on the narrow bed and carefully wrapped his arm around me, letting my head rest on his shoulder, even though he has to slouch. "I know," he says, "but if you are incapable of doing something, I want to help you, just like you help me by even being home." Over the course of the past couple of days, Sherlock has told me of how things were going while I was abroad, and he did not seem to be able to function properly, and I can tell when he is playing down parts, of which I will have to collect from others when I get the chance.

"Come on," he said, "lets get my blogger back to Baker Street." He stands as the nurse comes in with the wheelchair, a pair of crutches hanging off of the back.

It takes both my husband an the nurse to maneuver me into the chair with the amount of hard plaster that is casing my limbs, but eventually we manage to get into the hallway where Sherlock waves the nurse away, pushing me himself. I can't help but admire the man I married, with his silky black curls, stormy blue eyes, and the little smirk he cannot help but wear as we pass people on the way to the entrance of the hospital.

Waiting outside is a sleek black car, Mycroft's doing, I assume. This time I am able to help Sherlock and maneuver my way into the back of the car. He hands me the crutches before climbing in beside me, having to fold up his lanky legs to fit inside of the small interior.

* * *

By the time that we reach 221 B, I am getting tired again, but I make it up the seventeen steps with little hassle, even with the crutches. Sherlock stands behind me, seemingly worried that I will fall.

"Sherlock?" I ask, after settling into my chair with my leg propped up, "Do you mind if I order some take out? I haven't eaten real food since I left for Afghanistan!"

"Of course! I took the liberty of ordering Chinese before we left the hospital. One of Mycroft's minions will bring it by in about an hour, if you want to shower. I know that you hate the hospital when you are a patient." It is times like these that I love my husband, and can forget about things like finding eyeballs in the microwave or fingers in the fridge.

"That sounds great, love. Mind helping me wrap up the cast?" he did, in fact, not mind helping at all. I settled into the bath quickly, glad of the relief to my shoulder. Sherlock stayed behind with me in the loo, helping me clean up when I can't reach a spot and wash my hair. There is nothing in this world that is better than my husbands long fingers working the tension from my back, even if he had to skip over sections because of my injuries.

When we were done, the food had been left on the table, which was for once without any sort of experiment or foreign/toxic substance. It was a nice change. Baker Street had not evolved much, the only major things being that most of the mess had been cleaned, and a skeleton of a small reptile had joined the skull on the mantle.

"Sherlock," I said, after taking a bite of delicious Chinese, "why is there a skeleton on the mantle next to the skull? I thought Mrs. Hudson had taken the skull away?"

"She did, but I took it back while she was visiting her sister about two months ago. It wasn't hard to find, and the lock was even simpler to open. As for Leonard, I got lonely without you and Skully to talk to." Was his reply.

"I never knew the skull had a name. When did that happen?"

"When I was six. We all make mistakes when we were children." The look on my husbands face when he says this sends me over the edge and I burst out in laughter. He looks at me like I am an extraterrestrial (I can never say alien around him. Long story for another time.) Although that was the funniest thing I think I had ever herd my husband say, my laughter quickly died as the pain in my ribs returned.

Of course, because he is Sherlock Holmes, he does not fail to notice my wince of pain and immediately grabs two pain killers out of the medicine carbonate.

I glare at him, "Only one, I don't want to pass out yet, I haven't even had a cup of tea."

"It's just Aspirin. I don't want you to fall asleep yet either." He says, and I give in drowning them with water.

* * *

After dinner, we sat on the couch together, Sherlock's back pressed up against the arm rest, thighs spread so that I can sit between them, leaning back against his chest. We each hold a cup of tea, just basking in the feeling of holding each other for the first time in about a year.

As we listen to the sounds of London bustling around us, the sound of a siren comes closer and closer, quickly followed by pounding on the door downstairs. Neither Sherlock nor I try to move, for we hear Mrs. Hudson answer the door. Someone runs up the stairs two at a time (only making contact with eight of the steps), and the door flees open to a disheveled looking man at the door.

I recognize him as Detective Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard from my husband's description.

Sherlock calmly looks up over the edge of the couch and says, "What's different about this one?"


	5. Chapter 5

**AN- sorry for the late update, school is absolutely nuts. Finals are next week, I have a dress rehearsal and a concert, a tournament, plus the "group projects" that I end up doing all of the work on. Thanks to my beta AnimeApprentice!**

 **Disclaimer, I don't own BBC's Sherlock**

* * *

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighs. "We are desperate. Can't you help us out before another person winds up dead?"

"Boring! A 5 at the most! I do not leave the flat for at least a 7, you know that. When it gets interesting, then you can barge into my flat. Even if it was a 10, I would not take a case right now, John just got back if you would bother to use your eyes!" Exclaims my melodramatic husband, gesturing down at me. At Sherlock's insistence, the DI finally seems to notice that I am wrapped up in my husband's arms. His staring makes my face flame slightly.

I start to get up and reach for my crutches, saying, "You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm John Watson, Sherlock's husband. I hope he hasn't given you too much trouble while I was away." I balance on one crutch and extend my hand, which he clasps.

The man grins. "He humiliates my staff, but that can't be helped most of the time. They instigate it, he just retaliates." He turns to my now standing husband. "Sherlock, this is the fourth. You know how they never leave notes?" He nods. "Well, this one did."

Sherlock immediately perks up in little ways Lestrade seems not to notice but I do, though I may be a little rusty on reading the man after being gone for a year, even if he's my husband.

"Alright, I'll go." Sherlock sighs. "But who is on forensics?"

"Anderson." The DI winces just a little bit. This could be interesting.

"Anderson won't work with me, and my last assistant quit on me months ago. I will go only if you allow John to accompany me and we don't have to ride in the squad car." My Sherlock demands. Lestrade looks hesitant, but my hope is that he is desperate enough to let me join. I would like to see my husband in action with his deductions in a real situation, just like the first time we met.

"Fine." The man huffs. "He can come, but it might be easier in my car with the crutches. In a cab, you might have to get them in the trunk, and a cabbie will make you pay extra." DI Lestrade is nothing quite like the man I had imagined from Sherlock's letters, which had made him out to be rather incompetent and a pushover.

"Agreed."

* * *

Arriving at the scene, the first thing that I notice is that the taped off area is in chaos. The second is that it is one tall building. My hope is that the body will not be on the top floor, but knowing my luck, it will be.

Sherlock helps me get out of the car, handing me the crutches and carrying the old fashioned doctor's bag of mine that I had made him grab before we left the flat. It was my field bag, with anything and everything that I could need while examining a fresh body. Who knew my first night back in the flat would be this exciting?

While Sherlock was helping me, Lestrade went on past the tape, once again taking charge. As I hobble over to the tape line, an African woman with a head of curly hair was interrogating Sherlock at the tape. She grumbled, "Another case for Freak to get off on? And who's the cripple? I can't let just anyone in a crime scene and this one isn't exactly for those with a weak stomach. If I had a choice, I wouldn't even let you in Freak."

"We have an invitation. If you hadn't noticed, which obviously you didn't, your commanding officer was the one to give us a lift, and you are addressing my husband as a cripple, who just so happens to have more military standing than you can ever hope to achieve. John, this is the lovely Sergeant Sally Donovan." Sneers Sherlock.

I lean on one crutch, extending my hand. "Captain John Watson-Holmes of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, MD. Sherlock, would you mind handing the lady my ID? It's just inside my bag. I'm sure she can recognize a military ID, which gives me clearance to crime scenes should my presence be requested, which it was, by both my husband and your CO, whom I outrank, Sergeant." Sherlock passes her the ID and her face goes just a little bit green.

"Husband? How did Freak here get a husband, let alone one of military prestige? Did he follow you home or something? Trust me, you would be much better off with someone else, someone who has gone through the same experiences." And so the flirting begins. While my husband doesn't know this, and I dearly hope he never does, I didn't get the nickname Three Continents Watson from my army buddies for making friends.

"That is none of your concern." I snap, "Radio Lestrade, tell him we are coming in."

"Freak and his husband are coming up. Meet you on the landing." She starts to escort us to the door of the building when another officer approaches, dressed in a paper suit to prevent contamination.

"Oh Anderson," says my husband, "How long is your wife away this time?" The man he addresses sputters.

"Don't pretend you worked that out, someone must have told you."

"But I only observed. You see, your deodorant is for men."

"Of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sergeant Donovan. She must have helped you scrub your floors very well, going by the state of her knees." Sherlock smirks, and I let a little grin stretch across my face. It feels good to see him in action once more, especially since they have caused him a lot of grief while I was abroad.

"Who's your friend anyway? He can't come up, you know and you have to wear a suit, I won't have you contaminating my crime scene!" Anderson says.

"Captain John Watson-Homes, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, MD. Sherlock, love, would you mind showing my ID again? These stupid crutches are just too much of a hassle." He does so and I watch in amusement as Anderson's face takes on a look of shock. Whether at my term of endearment for my husband, or maybe my name. Either way, it is good to be home with the man that I love, doing something worthwhile.

* * *

 **Review! They make me happy**

 **PS someone just pointed out that I said African American, I apologize, I just went back and fixed it.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN- Hi everyone, sorry for the slow update, things have been crazy with me and my family. I hope to get a few more chapters out to you guys soon. Thanks to everyone who favorated and followed!**

 **AN- to those of you who saw this earlier, there was a formatting issue, hopefully it's fine now! Thanks Belen09 for pointing it out!**

Anderson looked at me completely flabbergasted. I could tell that he was going to have a similar reaction to the charming Sergeant Donovan. People really are idiotic. For the year that my husband has been working with the Scotland Yard, he hadn't made any effort to hide our marriage. They just think he's too different to find someone to be happy with. Sherlock is just my little sociopath, or so he claims. I say he is too smart to socialize with ordinary people.

"Your husband? How does a freak like you end up with a husband?" Anderson asks in the most offensive way, which I'm now inclined to believe is normal for him. If he doesn't remove the scowl from his face, it will be like that permanently. I've seen it happen.

"The same way you managed to obtain a wife, though I must point out that John and I's relationship is much healthier, as both you and your wife frequently commit adultery. Come, John, we need to head upstairs before these two numskulls lower the IQ of all Great Britain, with their dull and rather bigoted reactions." My husband ushers me through the doors as quickly as possible. "Besides," he addresses the two officers, "We have an invitation." With a sweep of his trench coat, we come onto a landing, Lestrade just inside the door.

"Sorry, mate, we can't ask the murderers where to dump the bodies. We've got to go all the way up," he says. I look forlornly up at all the stairs I have to climb with these ludicrous crutches. The DI gives me a pitying look as my energetic spouse bounds up the stairs, coat flapping behind him.

Lestrade tells me, "I would have interrupted them out there, but I know Sherlock has been waiting months to do that."

"No worries, mate. God knows how insufferable he must have been waiting for me to get back. I was on my last rotation before I got shot." Even if I hadn't been, I would have been home about now, so not a whole lot of harm done, except that he is a lot harder to keep an eye on with this stupid cast.

When we finally reach the top of the stairs, we found my husband with his hands steepled beneath his chin, the chain of his necklace between them, and a look of concentration on his face.

"When was she found? He demands. The women in question was laying face down on the floor, wearing a rather alarming shade of pink. Scratched onto the floor where the letters R-A-C-H-E. Revenge, in German. Rachel, if you add an 'L'.

"Early this morning. Two teens were looking for a place to get high. The bank owns the house. What do you know? I would say hurry up, but the Superintendent wants this cleaned up, fast. He was the one who told me to call you." Lestrade rambles. "He says-"

"Quiet! Need to focus. John, what do you think?" Sherlock interrupts. I look between him and the floor pointedly..

"Well, she's dead. Probably asphyxiation. Give me a hand here." He helped me to the ground and I examine her swiftly.

"Yup," I confirm, "Choked on her own vomit. Until the lab work is done, it could be anything from alcohol consumption to morning sickness, but my bets are on some kind of drug. It was clearly self administered, orally, as there is residue from where her mouth foamed. Only drugs do that, and not many of those." I state. Before the DI could ask, I continue, "Self-administered because she shows no sign of bruising on the wrists, face, or head. Hands and wrists if he (for 'he' being statistically more likely) held her down, and cranium would be if he knocked her out." My husband, the DI, and all of the officers in the room looked at me as though I grew a second head.

Sherlock, the first to snap out of it, gave me a breathtaking smile before proceeding to rattle off his own deductions. I tuned out, I would surely hear it all later while rants about how he can't think from of all the noise outside the flat. Oh, the flat. I can't wait to get back and just relax. It's just my luck to have a serial killer strike the day I can finally get home after too long on tour and a seemingly infinite hospital stay.

"John… John!" Sherlock got me to come on back out of my head. " And you say I get lost in my mind palace," he mutters. " Come on, let's get going. I've given them enough information, even Anderson could solve the case." He rolls his eyes and gestures for me to lead the way down the stairs.

After Sherlock hails a cab (how does he do it? I can never flag down a cab that quickly.), I say, "That was amazing. Utterly brilliant." He preens like a peacock under my praise.

"So were you!" he laughs triumphantly. "Completely getting under Donovan and Anderson's skin while maintaining societal politeness! I've waited an entire year for that and I didn't even have to tell you to say anything!" He leans over and pulls me into a kiss. "You're the one who's amazing." He murmurs, pulling back. "What do you want to do when we get back to the flat? You must be exhausted."

"Mmmmm. Some good takeaway and a cuppa would not go amiss. I never get tired of London food," I reply.

"How's your back? The crutches are bad for your shoulder, I see you wince every step you take with them." Of course he notices, he's bloody Sherlock Holmes.

"It's fine, " I insist, "nothing a hot shower won't fix. Muscles are a little tense, is all."

"Well, come on then, we're here." Home sweet home. Sherlock helps me out of the cab, pays the driver(for once!), and opens the door to 221B.

After laboring up all 17 worn stairs, I crash onto the couch and close my eyes. I hear Sherlock bustling around in the kitchen, hopefully not starting some crazy experiment to stave off his boredom. Just as I begin to doze off, Sherlock shook my good shoulder and silently offered me my mug (It had been declared mine so it wouldn't and couldn't be used in any of his experiments).

I gingerly sit up, using only one arm because of my shoulder, and accept his offering. After I take it, Sherlock makes me scoot forward so I am sitting between his legs, my back resting on his chest.

I peer curiously into the mug, tentatively giving it a sip. Surprisingly, it's good. Amazing, even. "Sherlock," I ask, "What did you put in this? You didn't drug it or anything, right?"

"Of course not. I simply reverse engineered your tea. It spilled on one of your letters, and I removed a little piece without writing on it." He looks rather sheepish.

"It's perfect, thank you, love. Now, where's that food? I'm starved!"

 **AN- Hope everyone liked it! Please let me know what you think, either as a comment or a PM. I'm still not quite sure where this is going, so give me some ideas! I would love to hear them. Thanks to my beta AnimeApprentice!:)**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN- hey guys, I'm sorry for such a long delay, things in my life have been a little crazy lately, but please let me know what you think. I'm not 100% sure how much of this particular murder I want to write about, so I would really appreciate your feedback. This chapter is currently unbeta-ed, so let me know about mistakes.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock, and some of my inspiration for the some of the plot comes from other shows, so everything recognizable, I do not own, nor am I making money from this.**

* * *

It's been a couple of weeks since my first case after coming back from Afghanistan. Sherlock has been surprisingly considerate about my injuries. After that first case, everything has been going pretty well, and I might even be able to get out of this infernal cast today. After a few minor setbacks, Sherlock having decided to perform some experiments on the plaster while I was sleeping, the doctor's appointment is finally today.

"John!" he yells, "Do you want to be late for your own appointment?!" If anyone is more excited about me getting the cast off, it would be my husband. He claims that he can't wait to go to most crime scenes, since it's a challenge to get to the more secluded sights.

"Sherlock, love, we have two hours. It's 6am. How about we go down to Speedy's for some breakfast, yeah?" I reach over to the side of my chair for the crutches, struggling to get out of the chair. Sherlock comes over and helps me up, hands me the crutches, and kisses the top of my head.

We make our way downstairs to the restaurant, and after I finished my food and make Sherlock hat some toast with his tea, we head outside. Sherlock hails a cab, I always wonder how he does it, and I tell the cabbie to take us to the hospital.

On the ride over, Sherlock surprises me again, taking my hand a squeezing it. We watch the foggy grey London streets in content silence.

 **A/N I don't feel like writing about the doctors visit**

* * *

Just as we are leaving the hospital, cast and crutches free, both mine and my husbands phones beep, coming up with a text from Lestrade. J-another murder, this ones a creepy one, need your help. Director specifically asked for you two. -L

"Well, Sherlock, looks like I got that cast off just in time, we've got a case!" I say. "Greg says it's a bad one, the higher-ups asked for you."

"Mycroft," he grumbles, "this better not be another one of his little schemes to get me to help with his MI projects. And I wanted to do something, now that you don't have your cast." I lean up and kiss his cheek.

"Well, that's very sweet of you, love, but I know that Greg could really use your help. You know how incompetent Anderson and Donovan are." Usually this tactic works with Sherlock, you just have to make him preen a little. "Besides," I add, "your brother promised not to manipulate your friendship with Greg after the last time, after you hijacked his treadmill."

"Fine," he says in an indignant tone, "have George send the address. But after this case I get to take you on an actual date." I smile while he's not looking. No one realized how much of a romantic Sherlock is.

* * *

At the crime scene, after stopping back at the flat for me to grab my bag, we go through our normal routine, but this time there is someone new on the perimeter, who refuses to grant us access.

"Sirs," he says, "I'm sorry, but no civilians are allowed on the scene." I trade a look with my husband, who gives me a minuscule nod, letting me handle the situation like I did with Donovan and Anderson a few weeks ago.

"Sargent, do you know who you are talking to? No? My name is Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and this is my husband, Sherlock Watson-Holmes. What is your security clearance?" I demand.

He stutters for a moment before saying, "Beta yellow, captain."

"Sherlock, be a dear and grab my ID out of my bag there? It's a little hard to get it out with this stupid cane." Even if I was off of crutches, I still have to use a cane, for my leg still gives me grief. I have to say, though, it's a nice change from the crutches. Sherlock digs though my bag, but before he pulls out my ID, Greg walks up and pulls aside the Sargent before returning to us.

"Sorry about that, guys. New men are so hard to train these days. You better hurry, this one needs to stay out of the press as long as possible. Nice to see you without the cast on, John! Not a ton of stairs to manage today, but there's a couple. I wish we the killers at least put the bodies in easier places for you."

The one thing about Greg that I don't like is that he can be a little condescending sometimes, but I know he doesn't mean to be. "Thanks, mate, it's nice to be out of the infernal thing. Let's get going, then." Sherlock mutters something about how if killers made it easier for the Yard, he would go stupid from boredom, yet lifts the tape to let me under.

In the house, we descend the cellar stairs, coming into an unfinished basement that looks to have been turned into a chemistry lab. Sherlock immediately turns to the body in the middle of the room, propped up in an uncomfortable-looking chair. I pause and look at my husband. It's always amazing to see him in his element, doing what he loves, catching killers.

"John, what are you doing just standing there, I need cause of death. Something is strange about this one and it's irritating me." As I make my way over, I hear Anderson mutter, 'for once, the all knowing freak doesn't have an answer.'

Sherlock spins on a dime, turning to face Anderson. "Anderson, I actually have about 10 different scenarios running though my head right now, and I need John's COD to narrow it down. If you manage to come up with even an inkling of a theory, I'm sure that your elementary school would be willing to take you back."

"Boys," Greg says, "calm down, we're all here for the same reason, to catch a killer. Sherlock," he gestures to the body, "if you wouldn't mind sharing your theories?"

"Actually, George, I would not. My theories are just that, theories. I need more data before I can make a definitive conclusion. John, hurry up, I want to take my samples back to the lab."

I crouch by the body, noting the vintage clothing, perfect makeup, and start my examination. "Well," I say, "looks like she died of poisoning, tiny nick just past the hairline, behind the left ear. But, Sherlock, it looks like she was posed like this." I look up at him, knowing that my face showed the worry that I'm feeling.

"How long has she been like this, then?" Greg asks.

"I would say she's been dead at least a year, but there are indications that she was held as a captive before then."

 **AN: Don't hate me for the cliffhanger! I'll try to write more soon, but please give your feedback, it makes writing easier.**


End file.
